


Meet Me in the Woods

by writteninblood



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, Fate & Destiny, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Near Death, References to Canon, Season/Series 02, Sort Of, Too Many Death Puns, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 02:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninblood/pseuds/writteninblood
Summary: “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but you don’t remember anything happening to you recently do you? Like say…dying?”“No.” Edward replies vehemently. “I don’t know what’s happening but I amnotdead.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verovex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/gifts).



> Happy birthday Vero, I hope you enjoy this huge piece of angsty surrealism. You're my favourite. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is based on/inspired by the movie _Just Like Heaven_. 
> 
> Title and lyrics at the top of each chapter from the Lord Huron song.
> 
> You can find an accompanying playlist [here](https://8tracks.com/automationbaby/meet-me-in-the-woods).

_I took a little journey to the unknown  
And I come back changed, I can feel it in my bones_

  


Oswald couldn’t say exactly how he ended up in the strange apartment; at least not in a way that makes any sense. His memories of the sequence of events that led him there are patchy at best. It hurts his head to think too much, or too deeply about it.

What he can remember is this: driving frantically away from Jim Gordon and his pathetic defence of Theo Galavan, gripping the gunshot wound in his shoulder; the large apartment advertisement that fluttered onto his windscreen and almost caused him to crash into the line of parked cars on the street; dragging himself up the stairs to the advertised apartment; shoving open the door with his uninjured shoulder; receiving instructions on how to clean and (very awkwardly) dress the wound—probably from a voice in his head. He was very woozy at that point, but at the time, it had felt as though there was someone with him, guiding him through the process. But who could have been there? The apartment had been advertised as a vacant sublet.

Oswald wakes up in the exact same position he had passed out in, sprawled across the checked coverlet. Everything in his body aches; his head is thumping, and his mouth tastes as though something has crawled into it, set up camp for a bit, and then died. Oswald can’t recall ever feeling this wretched. There is a gnawing hunger in his stomach but he doesn’t feel as though he has the energy to satiate it. However, the grim feeling of dried cold sweat is enough to force him to move, and he shuffles very slowly across the room to the bathroom. Oswald glances at the shower—he doesn’t think it’s physically possible for him to manage it given the amount of pain he is in, as well as his very low energy levels. His bandages will have to be replaced soon though.

A cursory splash of water over his face and torso will have to do. Once he feels suitably refreshed, he gingerly starts going through the bathroom cabinets for some pain medication, cringing as every movement aggravates his wound. 

“You know, you really shouldn’t be out of bed Mister Penguin,” comes a deep voice behind him. It’s same voice from the night before. 

Oswald whips around, crying out at the pains tearing through his shoulder at the motion. He leans on the sink, waiting for the pain and dizziness to pass. His can feel his heartbeat thudding nauseatingly at his temples.

Clearly, he is still delirious, hearing voices. More rest is what he needs. Perhaps it is his instinct talking to him—maybe that’s it—things had been so dire the evening before that his survival instinct had physically manifested to get him to do what was necessary. 

Slowly, gingerly, he turns once more to the cabinet, rummaging through the impressive array of pills and medicines. The person who had previously lived there had either been a hypochondriac or had access to hefty amounts of medical supplies. Perhaps they were a doctor of some kind. 

Settling for a bottle of aspirin, he closes the cabinet, but then jumps back in horror at the appearance of a man apparently standing right behind him, visible in the mirror. 

“Those won’t have any effect on injuries as extensive as yours. What you need is—”

Oswald turns around, more slowly than before, and this time there _is_ someone there. A man, who for some reason, looks familiar. That fact does not do anything to slow down his heart rate, or make him any less furious for being made to feel so terrified.

“Who _are_ you? This apartment is supposed to be _vacant_!” Oswald grips the sink again, starting to feel faint. 

“We met once before at the GCPD! I’m Edward. Nygma. I can’t tell you how honoured I am that you would come to me for help—”

“I only _came_ here because I thought the place was empty!” Oswald replies, exasperated beyond measure. 

“Just a silly misunderstanding!” Edward says brightly. “This is my apartment. I live here.”

“I don’t have time for this. I needed a safe house, not an over excited boy scout! I’m leaving!” Oswald knows he won’t get far in his current state, but even just making it to the car would be enough. He cannot not stay in the apartment with this cretin, lurking and creeping about soundlessly.

“Sir, I’m afraid you cannot leave. You could try to run but in your condition, you’d only make it three blocks. You’ll have to stay here until you’re fully recovered. And you are of course welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“Thank you, but I can manage just fine on my own.” And with that he attempts to confidently stride out of the apartment. 

Edward follows him out into the living area, attempting to block his path, gesturing wildly. Oswald is about to yell at him to get out of his way when he notices the way Edward is standing. Or rather, _where_ he is standing. He stares, completely aghast, as a chill creeps over his skin. His eyes are struggling to reconcile what they’re seeing with what they know to be true about the world.

Edward is standing in the bed, his legs cut off below the knees. _In_ the bed. He had backed away in front of Oswald, and not been stopped by solid objects—and he’d walked _through_ the solid metal of the bed frame. Oswald’s mouth falls open in terror as he looks down at where Edward’s legs merge with the bed. 

“What is it?” Edward asks, manner polite and almost scientifically curious.

Oswald lifts his hand as much as he can—given his fright and the struggle of his brain to process what he is seeing— to gesture towards Edward’s legs. Edward looks down and gasps.

“Oh my,” he says.

Oswald collapses.

*

Oswald wakes up on the floor, face down, exactly where he had fallen. It takes him a moment to recollect how he had ended up there, and where there even is. This waking up feeling disoriented and confused and in strange positions is rapidly getting old.

Groggily, he slowly pushes himself upright, cringing at the shooting pains in his shoulder. He kneels and looks around himself, grunting as every muscle in his body protests the movement. 

“Miss Kringle is the love of my life,” says a dreamy voice. It’s the boy scout again, perched on the edge of the bed. His posture is bolt upright, as if it had been drilled into him to sit straight as a child. Perhaps it had.

Oswald jumps; he could have sworn Edward was not there a moment ago. Oswald looks at him a moment longer. Whatever he is, he does not seem threatening. 

With considerable effort, Oswald pulls himself to his feet and limps over to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. In the same cupboard as the glasses Oswald sees a box of ridiculous blue and white striped straws. On a whim, he selects one and drops it into his glass, before heading over to the bed. 

Once under the covers, he sighs as his muscles thank him for choosing comfort this time. He takes a sip of water and settles back into the pillows. 

“She has beautiful red hair, and she smells like a _meadow_.” Edward continues. “And such a lovely smile. Not that she ever smiled at me.”

Oswald looks at Edward. Even though he is moving, none of the sheets so much as rustle. Is it possible that Oswald is hallucinating? Had he hit his head at some point between getting shot and ending up at the apartment? That doesn’t really make much sense. Why would he hallucinate a tenant who went on and on about a _woman_ of all things? It seems more likely that he is a ghost, perhaps the man that lived here, unable to let go. It would be just Oswald’s luck that he has run into the one ghost who seems to know who he is and won’t leave him alone. He cannot imagine the man having any friends, even when he was alive. Oswald gets the impression he would do anything if it meant it would get someone to like him. Desperation is not a trait that Oswald likes in people. 

“I knew it the moment I first saw her. She belongs with me.” Edward is still blathering on.

It’s nauseating.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a gun lying around here would you?” Oswald asks lazily.

“I...I don't know. Why?”

Oswald leans forward and puts as much venom into his voice as he can muster. “Because if you did I would ask you to fucking _shoot me_ so I don’t have to listen to this drivel anymore!” He then slumps dramatically back against the pillows.

For one very satisfying moment, Edward looks shocked, and then hurt. But he seems to quickly shake himself out of it. “I think perhaps you need more rest.”

Oswald puts his drink on the bedside table and lays down properly, pulling the pillows down under his head and making himself comfortable. Before he allows himself to drift off, he casts one more glance towards where Edward had been sitting. 

He is gone.

*

Oswald wakes up for the third time feeling marginally better. He sits upright and looks around the apartment for the apparent ghost, finally locating him standing by the window. He is illuminated by the green light of some neon advertisement outside. He has one arm wrapped around his middle, and the other raising a finger to his lips, clearly deep in thought. 

As if sensing Oswald’s eyes on him, Edward turns and smiles warmly. It triggers something inside Oswald, because in a matter of seconds, his world comes crashing down. 

His mother is dead. 

It wasn’t that he forgot exactly, the grief has been ever present throughout this ordeal so far, blackening the edges of his vision. But before, he didn’t have the mental capacity to face it head on, with the physical and mental strain of his injury. Now the realisation that he won’t ever see her again is hitting him full force. She won’t pull him into her comforting embrace, won’t smile at him when he comes home, won’t ever tell him again how proud she is of her little Cobblepot. She was the only person in the world that he trusted, and the only person that truly loved and cared for him. Brutally murdered, right in front of him. He recalls how confused and concerned for him she looked, even as she was dying in his arms. 

He breaks down in tears. Full body sobs shake him as he covers his face with one hand. He registers Edward’s approach in his peripheral vision, as he comes and sits beside him, closer than he had before. He just sits silently, his presence somehow comforting just for being there. At least in this moment he is not entirely alone.

He doesn’t see Edward attempt to lay his hand over Oswald’s. Edward is the only one who watches in dismay as his hand passes right through Oswald’s skin, as he tries to reassuringly squeeze his hand.

Oswald withdraws his hand from laying on the bed and holds it against his chest. He feels as though a chill has passed over him, seeping into his bones. The feeling manages to sober him somewhat from his emotional outpouring. 

“What happened?” Edward asks gently.

“I lost my mother.” More tears fall, unbidden.

“I’m sorry.” Edward says. 

“It’s my fault she’s dead. She wouldn’t have been in that situation if it wasn’t for me. I may as well have killed her.”

At that, Edward simply stares at him, his eyes narrowing, expression calculating. Oswald had expected him to contradict him as any sane person would, but instead Edward seems to be searching him for something. 

At any rate, Oswald is glad Edward doesn’t insist it’s not his fault. In his current frame of mind, Oswald is looking for an excuse to rage at someone, but quite frankly, he doesn’t have the energy. There is a painful hunger in his stomach, his head is throbbing, and he suspects he is also badly dehydrated. 

“Is there any food in this place?” Oswald asks, throwing back the covers and limping over to the kitchen. He pauses to lean on the counter for a few moments, his head dizzy from the effort. 

“Of course!” Edward says, demeanour all cheer. But it abruptly drains from his face, when he realises he doesn’t actually know. 

The man looks pitiful, as he sits there, the picture of confusion. He looks incredibly lost. 

Oswald eventually finds some tins in one of the cupboards—it seems all the perishables have been thrown out. The simple motions involved in heating up some soup calm Oswald a little and he leans back on the counter as he stirs it, facing Edward. Oswald says, “what are you?”

Edward looks down at his lap, his fingers nervously curling around each other. When he looks up, Edward’s expression is full of only one thing: fear.

“I don’t know.”

“Ed, was it?” Oswald asks, knowing full well it is.

Edward nods, smiling a little at Oswald remembering his name.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but you don’t remember anything happening to you recently do you? Like say… _dying_?”

“ _No_.” Edward replies vehemently. “I don’t know what’s happening but I am _not_ dead.” 

“How do you know that? Have you not noticed how you disappear while I’m asleep?”

“That might say more about you than it does about me.” Edward responds under his breath, but Oswald still catches it and raises his eyebrows. It seems he isn’t quite as pathetic as previously thought.

“Well what about the fact you can’t touch anything?”

“If I can’t touch anything, how am I sitting on this bed?” As he says it, he starts sinking into it. He jumps up, and his feet start sinking into the floor. He stares down in horror then starts to run, to try and keep his feet above ground. 

Oswald watches him utterly bewildered as he hops and skips across the floor, before losing his balance and falling through a wall. The _outer_ wall, the one with a long drop on the other side of it. He hears the man scream briefly, and then there’s nothing. 

Oswald stands there in the sudden deafening silence for a few moments, trying to process what he has just witnessed. As the soup starts to boil, he shrugs and turns back to it, muttering to himself, “I guess he found the light.”

He pours the soup into a bowl, eventually finds a spoon from one of the drawers, and turns to go and sit at the rickety dining table. He stops abruptly when he sees Edward standing directly behind him. He starts so hard soup sloshes over his fingers, the liquid scalding him painfully. 

“ _Fuck_!” Oswald hisses, glaring up at Edward. 

“There is no light,” Edward grits out angrily. “And I am _not_ dead!”

It seems he can walk or sit on solid things when he’s not thinking about it. Oswald files that piece of information away; it might come in useful later when he wants to get rid of him.

Boldly, Oswald walks right through Edward to get to the kitchen table, refusing to show any discomfort at the resulting shiver. He sits down with an angry thump, and pauses the first spoonful halfway to his mouth, looking up at Edward under his brows.

“You’re dead, Ed. _Get over it_.” And with that he shoves the spoon into his mouth. 

Edward stands there glowering, clenching his fists at his sides. He starts to pace back and forth, while Oswald eats his soup as calmly as possible. He’s putting so much effort into looking calm, it is actually keeping him from having a mental breakdown as a result of being haunted by this bespectacled bag of cats.

Edward finally comes to a stop in his irritated pacing. “Lord, what if I _am_ dead?”

Oswald pushes his soup bowl away from himself and places an elbow on the table, leaning his chin on it as he gazes at the lanky man having, quite literally, an existential crisis. 

He’s sitting in the kitchen with a ghost who’s having an existential crisis. 

Oswald blinks several times and sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill you.” By some miracle, he manages to keep sarcasm out of his tone. 

Edward shoots him a grateful look, utterly unaware of Oswald’s less savoury inner thoughts. He imagines being able to vacuum up the ghost like he had seen in a movie once—wonders what would actually happen if he attempted it. Oswald watches Edward slowly approach the table. 

“Regardless,” Oswald continues, “it seems the most likely explanation of what is happening here. You’re dead, Edward.” 

In all honesty, Oswald cannot imagine anyone wanting to murder Edward. But he seems intelligent, so perhaps he was murdered for information, or to keep him quiet. But then again, this _is_ Gotham. Perhaps he just went out for groceries.

Edward sits down on the other chair, opposite him. “But, if I’m dead, why am I here?”

It’s a terrible cliché, but Oswald says it anyway. They’re both thinking it. “Unfinished business? Did you have anything you desperately wanted to do before you…passed?”

Edward scrunches up his face in thought. “I don’t remember. I remember my name, Miss Kringle, and that this is my apartment…but I don’t remember anything else.”

“You don’t have any memories of your life at all? Of your last moments? How you might have died?”

“No…the only knowledge I have of anything outside this apartment is of the time I spent with Miss Kringle, that I loved her, and wanted her to love me.”

Oswald just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. It’s like something from a romantic film, the fact that the only thing Edward remembers from his life is the woman he loves.

“But that can’t be my unfinished business. She can’t fall in love with a ghost. Can she? No. It wouldn’t be fair to her. I can’t just… _stay_ like this.”

Oswald suddenly remembers Edward’s first appearance, the previous evening, and what he had said. 

“She’s not the only thing you remembered,” Oswald says, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice. “You remembered me.”

Edward looks at him, his expression one of hopeful vulnerability. “I did?”

“Yes, yesterday evening you called me Mr. Penguin, and you said we met once before at the GCPD. I remember now—that’s where you work. You asked me a riddle, and you told me a fact about penguins.”

Edward’s face lights up, and he looks profoundly grateful for this new information about himself. “That does sound like me—I think.”

He looks so happy that for a moment, Oswald considers trying to help him find all the missing pieces that make him who he is. But then he remembers two things: the first being that Edward is dead, and the second being that he is going to leave Gotham for good. There is nothing left for him here.

In that moment, he feels another wave of tiredness wash over him. He’s about to push his seat back and get up, when Edward speaks again.

“It’s like when you wake up from a vivid dream, and all the details slip through your fingers, even as you try to hold onto them. It’s as though the knowledge is there, but it’s just beyond my grasp…I can’t _summon_ memories, but sometimes I just _know_ them…”

Oswald watches Edward tiredly, and it strikes him just how real and _present_ Edward looks. He doesn’t resemble what one might imagine from a ghost. He’s not pale or gaunt and he looks perfectly healthy. He is perhaps a little on the skinny side, but nothing to worry about (it’s a bit late for that now anyway). He isn’t even a little transparent, either. He looks as though if Oswald reached out to touch him, his fingers would graze the soft grey fabric of his sweater.

Edward tilts his head slightly, his eyes curious under Oswald’s stare. “Do you think that perhaps fate brought you here? That maybe the reason I am here is because we were supposed to meet again?”

Oswald frowns at him. “To what end?” It’s a rhetorical question, and an effective end to that impossible line of thought. His mind definitely cannot deal with the mysteries of the universe right now.

He gets up then, and makes his way to the bathroom. When he returns to the living area, he finds Edward still sitting at the table, watching him as he hobbles back to the bed. Oswald gets back into the side he previously occupied, pulling the covers up to his neck. 

Edward walks around to the other side of the bed, and eyes Oswald somewhat nervously, lips pursed. “May I?”

Oswald glances at him and nods, his eyelids already heavy. “What happens to you when I’m asleep? Where do you go?”

Edward lays down on the bed beside him, on his back, his hands together on his chest. He looks eerily like a statue laying atop a tomb. 

Edward’s brow creases as he clearly struggles to answer. “I don’t know. I’m just…not here.” He looks more than a little afraid as Oswald gradually closes his eyes; Oswald’s rapid descent into sleep is causing Edward to fade away. But weak as he still is, Oswald is powerless to stop it. And he’s not sure why he wants to. 

*

His dreams are melancholy. He dreams about the day he met Edward, and although he can see the man in the corner of his eye, he seems to vanish whenever he looks directly. Standing up by the captain’s office is Jim Gordon, looking down on him, with his mother standing beside him. His mother liked Jim. Probably because he is the man that Oswald should be. The hero that saves the city, not the man who hides in the shadows, prepared to achieve his goals by _any_ means necessary. Jim whispers to her, and she looks at Oswald with distaste. Jim smirks.

Beside him, a voice is saying, “isn’t that neat?” But Oswald isn’t paying attention. He’s looking at his mother and feeling his heart break, because he knows instinctively that now she is aware who he _really_ is, she won’t love him anymore. He starts finding it difficult to breathe, falling to his knees, gunshots ringing in his ears. One pierces his shoulder and he cries out in agony, the sound echoing in a ghastly way around the precinct. In his peripheral vision, he can see Edward kneeling beside him. Oswald turns to look at him, and this time he is there. But instead of the nervous man who wouldn’t leave him alone, he sees a hollow skeleton, rapidly dissolving into ash. 

Because of course, Edward, the only person left in the world who would help him right now, is dead. 

He screams.

And then he wakes up. 

He’s covered in cold sweat again, one of the most disgusting feelings in the world to wake up to, and once again he feels weak and hungry. Today he is going to have to find more than soup and water as sustenance if he’s ever going to get strong enough again to leave the apartment, and the city. 

There’s nothing here for him anymore.

“Morning,” says a croaky voice beside him. 

Oswald glances to his left and sees Edward laying in the same position he had been in when Oswald was falling asleep. As before, he looks happy to see Oswald again. Probably just relieved to be brought into being again by Oswald’s being conscious.

Oswald closes his eyes and takes a fortifying breath. Now is as good a time as any. He’s unsettled by his dream, erratically so, and therefore utterly uncaring of Edward’s feelings. He sits up and clears his throat. 

“While it is unfortunate, for you, that you’re dead—my deepest condolences, really—you should know that as soon as I am recovered, I am leaving Gotham forever. Which means, I won’t be helping you.”

Edward sits up, frowning. “But you won’t be fully recovered for weeks…”

Oswald feels his eyes go wide at the idea of spending an extended period of time with this man, before exasperatedly exclaiming, “I cannot spend _weeks_ here talking to _you_! I will stay here a week at most. Then I am leaving.”

Edward looks hurt, but recovers quickly. “If you leave, I’ll just follow you. If my state of being is tied to your waking hours, then I can travel with you. I’d rather have the company, if I’m to go through a long afterlife without resolution...”

Oswald looks suitably horrified by this idea. Haunted by this incredibly irritating, lovelorn pest for the rest of his life. He notices Edward watching him closely, and realises that Edward has just played a very clever card. Who _is_ Edward Nygma?

He sighs, knowing he has been defeated. “All right, I’ll help you find whatever it is you need to properly…pass on. And then you’ll let me leave and _never_ bother me again, are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

And that’s how it begins.

*

Oswald is having a much needed shower, enjoying the way the pressure and high temperature relaxes his muscles, when he hears a voice on the other side of the curtain that he has come to associate with a severe spike in his blood pressure. He peers around the curtain to see Edward sitting calmly on the toilet, leg crossed, chin leaning on his knuckles. He smiles at Oswald when their eyes meet.

“I was thinking, we might want to start—”

“What the hell are you doing in here? _GET OUT!_ ”

Edward has the good grace to look startled by Oswald’s outburst, and he backs out of the bathroom hastily and clumsily, fading through the door.

Oswald leans his forehead on the wall tiles, trying to slow his breathing. It’s times like this he wishes he was an atheist. 

*

They start by going through the drawers in Edward’s desk. Luckily he is the sort of person who meticulously keeps all his bills and financial documents in a folder, in date order. From the documents spread out between them on the sofa, they learn that he is a forensic scientist at the GCPD, and not a cop as Oswald had feared. However, this basic information about Edward doesn’t really help them much when it comes to what happened to him and why he might still be lingering after death. There is one obvious solution, and Oswald is loath to mention it because it will almost certainly result in his being discovered and incarcerated. But perhaps mentioning it may jog Edward’s memory or help them to a better idea. 

“The simplest thing to do would be to call Jim Gordon. As your colleague at the GCPD, he will certainly know what happened to you. The only problem is that I am a wanted man, and I will speak to that miscreant again _over my dead body_.” Oswald pouts and shrugs before adding, deadpan, “or yours.”

Edward stares at him blankly, the joke going straight over his head. “You could just call someone else there who doesn’t know your voice…” 

“Too risky, they record all their calls after all.”

Edward nods, chagrined that he hadn’t remembered that fact himself. 

“So I’m going to have to leave the apartment. I’ll need to leave for food that’s not from a tin soon anyway. That’s something else I’ve been wondering—if you’re dead, why have all your belongings not been moved out of the apartment?”

Edward shrugs. “Perhaps they’re still trying to find a next of kin. Or perhaps they’re going to sell it all with the apartment.”

Oswald can relate to the listless way that Edward looks around at all his things; Oswald has just suffered through having everything that ever mattered to him taken away. 

“I should probably get going then.” Oswald says, trying to summon the strength to get up. Even though he has eaten a little more, he still gets out of breath simply crossing the room. It’s going to take some time to get his full strength back. 

“You can’t go today,” Edward says with certainty. “Give it at least one more day before you venture outside. There are stores on the street below.”

Before Oswald can ask how he knows that, since he seems never to leave the apartment, Edward says, “I saw when I fell through the wall.”

Oswald nods absently, his eyelids drooping. They’ve been going through Edward’s things for most of the day, and Oswald is tired again, even though it’s only early evening. “I’m going to lay down,” he mutters, before shuffling across the room to the bed. It’s difficult not to trip over Edward’s pyjama bottoms, as they are far too long for him. 

He gets under the covers, fluffing up the pillows behind him, not an easy task given the way the bed is put together with metal pipes and no proper headboard. He doesn’t know how Edward ever slept here, it’s extremely uncomfortable, preferable only to the floor.

Once again, Edward perches beside him, one knee on the bed, one hanging over the side. The bed doesn’t dip or move at all.

“Mister Penguin—”

“I think we’re long past any formalities Ed,” Oswald says wearily. “Call me Oswald.”

Edward grins. It’s the sort of smile that would be utterly disarming if it had any confidence behind it. “What happened to your mother? You said it was your fault she died. What did you mean by that?”

A fresh wave of pain washes over Oswald, rendering him momentarily breathless. Seeing his mother’s face in his mind’s eye is agonizing. For a moment he wants to lash out at Edward for such a blunt reminder, but Oswald can’t even hit him. Edward is quite literally untouchable.

“She was killed, right in front of me,” he finds himself saying, as the tears start to flow. “She died in my arms.”

“So, she was murdered?”

“ _Yes_ she was murdered—what part of killed did you not understand?” Oswald seethes, wishing he had the strength and opportunity to hit someone. 

“Well I only thought—once we find out what happened to me, I could help you get your revenge. I mean, no one else can see me, and I can walk through walls—I could be your spy!” Edward finishes excitedly. 

As much as Oswald hates to admit it, it _is_ a good idea. Edward could find out the man’s plans, and Oswald could wait for the right moment, when he is least guarded, to pick Galavan off and kill him. 

“You would do that for me?”

“Of course, Mister Pen—Oswald. It would be an honour.”

“But then what?”

“Then I stop defying every scientific law there is by being here and cease to exist.”

It’s so clinical and cold, the way he says it. Oswald can imagine him in his role as a forensic scientist, being completely unaffected by the dead bodies he examines and the stories that put them there. His own story has become something for someone else to examine. Oswald wonders if he would be quite so detached about that thought.

“I can’t stay here like this, halfway between life and death. I need to go.” Edward looks around at the apartment, longing evident in his expression. His old life is so close, so close he could touch it, yet he can’t. It must be agonizing. Oswald thinks he would prefer to move on too. 

“I wish I could have said goodbye,” Edward murmurs, so quietly Oswald almost doesn’t hear. He’s obviously talking about that Kringle woman, and while the last thing Oswald wants to hear about is this man’s unrequited love, he supposes Edward _is_ going to help him avenge his mother’s death, so he probably owes it to him.

“To Miss Kringle?” Oswald says, knowing full well, but knowing it will only take a tiny push to get him talking about it. 

Edward nods. “She worked with me, though I can’t remember what she did. I gave her gifts, tried to help her and talk to her. But she never seemed to understand me. And I figured I just had to make her see that we belong together. I mean, why wouldn’t we? She has an unusually high IQ—not as high as mine of course—and those men she usually dates aren’t worthy of her. They’re hardly better than Neanderthals. _I_ am worthy.” He looks at Oswald sadly. “ _Was_ worthy. I would have spent my whole life trying to make her happy.”

Oswald feels vaguely nauseous again, but that may be the persistent gnawing hunger, an inevitable result from lack of proper nourishment. 

He considers reassuring Edward with lies. The woman clearly wasn’t interested in him that way, and perhaps the kinder course of action would be to tell him that she just hadn’t realised her feelings yet. But then again, maybe the thing keeping Edward tethered to the world is the fact he hasn’t yet let her go. Oswald has spent a lot of time manipulating people with lies, and normally he wouldn’t think twice about taking the easier route, especially if it benefitted him in some way. Telling Edward it seems likely that Miss Kringle has never been attracted to him and likely never would have been if he hadn’t died is only going to cause Oswald grief—with Edward likely to mope over the woman even more than he already does.

It seems plain to Oswald that Edward had perpetuated an impossible ideal with regards to Miss Kringle, something even the woman herself could not hope to live up to. Once upon a time, Oswald might have even found it tragically funny.

Oswald is not the same man he was prior to losing his mother.

He won’t lie.

“Edward, in the spirit of our new friendship,” Oswald has to swallow his chuckle at the unintentional pun, “I’m going to be frank with you.”

Edward angles himself more towards Oswald and adjusts his glasses. “Oh… All right.”

“I don’t think she reciprocated your feelings, and nor was she likely to.” Oswald tries a sympathetic smile, but thinks it probably comes off as a grimace. “I think you need to make your peace with that.”

“How can you possibly know that?” 

“From what you’ve said, you pursued her for quite some time, and she never showed any interest…”

“It was only a matter of time—”

“She had plenty of time to respond favourably to your intentions, yet she did not. What were you expecting? That you’d wear her down eventually and live happily ever after? That’s not how the world works, Ed! Believe me, _I know_!”

Edward looks like he’s about to argue, but then he just deflates, his face crumpling. 

“Look, Ed—”

But Ed holds up a hand to stop him. He looks broken. Oswald notices for the first time that his chest is going up and down rapidly, and can hear his laboured breaths. Surely if he _is_ dead, that shouldn’t be possible?

Edward gets up then and walks towards the bathroom, through the door, and then there’s silence. 

Silent sulking is better than Oswald had expected. He shuffles so he’s laying down and closes his eyes, grateful for the quiet. 

What’s unexpected is that he is so unsettled by the whole thing that it takes him a while to fall asleep. 

*

Dawn is just starting to break when Oswald wakes up the following morning. He squints at the window, not really feeling rested. There was too much going on in his mind to sleep peacefully. He remembers instantly the conversation from the night before and the way it had ended. Will Edward show himself again? Has Oswald upset him so greatly that he won’t come back?

Surely it’s just a tantrum. His existence is tied to Oswald and the apartment. Without Oswald, he can’t have resolution. Edward will have to reappear eventually.

Oswald gets out of bed and heads over to the bathroom. He listens at the door, but hears nothing. He turns the handle, the fear of Edward suddenly appearing and making him jump out of his skin a very real concern. He pushes open the door quickly to get it over with, doing the same with the shower curtain as he shoves it to one side…but Edward is nowhere to be seen. 

Oswald decides to just get on with his plans for the morning. He dresses half in his own clothes, half in Edward’s, finishing his garishly mismatched look with a flat cap. 

Avoiding looking in the mirror, his last twenty dollars in his pocket, he heads down to the street below. People are just leaving their homes to head to work, getting into cars bleary-eyed, paying him no mind. 

Oswald is just wondering about calling Gabe and asking him to find out what happened, when he has a better idea. He has stumbled across an internet café—somewhere he can safely and anonymously search online newspaper archives to find out what happened to Ed. 

He pays for half an hour and wastes no time going to the Gotham Gazette website; putting Edward’s name into the search box. 

There is only one article, which makes things easier. 

_Hero of the GCPD Massacre_

_While the city is still reeling from the shock of the attack on its police headquarters, a touching story of bravery has emerged from the tragedy._

_Though the death toll is still unknown, at least one life was saved, by one of the GCPD’s own, Mr. Edward Nygma, who worked in forensics._

_Miss Kristen Kringle, archivist at the GCPD, told reporters on Friday that Mr. Nygma pushed her out of the way of gun fire, becoming seriously wounded in the process. It is understood he remains in hospital in a critical condition…_

Oswald stares at the computer monitor in shock. 

This is the only article, which means there have been no developments since. Surely, if the “hero” had died, there would have been another article about him, or at least an obituary. 

Oswald inhales shakily.

Edward Nygma isn’t dead.


	2. Chapter 2

_The truth is stranger than my own worst dreams  
Holy darkness got a hold on me_

  
“Ed? Edward? Are you here?” Calls Oswald from the main room of the apartment.

Edward, still feeling angry and ashamed from their conversation the night before, walks through the bathroom wall and follows Oswald to the kitchen, where he’s putting his grocery bags on the counter. He stops behind him.

“I’m here.” 

Satisfyingly, Oswald jumps, then turns around. But he doesn’t look mad—in fact, he looks strangely happy about something. 

“You’re not dead!” he cries delightedly.

But that doesn’t make any sense. How can he be a ghost but not be dead? Oswald must read some of his confusion because he elaborates. 

“There was an attack on the GCPD—from Jerome Valeska and the Maniax, I remember it now, because it was the incident where the captain died. You were shot saving Miss Kringle—you’re in hospital, probably in a coma.” Oswald grins up at him, eyes alight. “Edward, you’re alive.”

Edward feels all of the breath go out of him, his legs feeling like jelly. He collapses onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. His eyes are stinging. Relief washes over him in powerful waves. He hadn’t realised how deeply he was mourning for his own life until he heard that word. _Alive_. He starts to laugh, the pure joy of living pouring out of him. He looks up at Oswald, who’s still smiling at him, chuckling along. He is struck with the urge to embrace him, and he gets as far as jumping up and spreading his arms, before realising he physically can’t put his arms around Oswald. He lowers his arms awkwardly, bites his lip, and shrugs awkwardly. Oswald clears his throat and turns back to his groceries, beginning to put them away.

Unable to help, Edward sits down again and thinks over what Oswald told him. 

Just because he’s not dead, doesn’t mean the situation isn’t dire. There is every chance he may never wake up from his coma, and it will likely get worse the longer he stays in that state. 

“How long ago did the attack happen?”

Oswald frowns as he reads Edward’s line of thought.

“Three weeks ago.”

That’s a persistent coma, and his chances of waking up from it are already slim. Basically, he _is_ as good as dead. 

Still, he doesn’t know what the circumstances are, what the wound was and specifically what happened to cause the coma. There are too many questions. He needs to know what the situation is before someone pulls the plug. He was so happy moments ago, and now he almost feels worse than before when he thought he was dead. _Now_ he is powerless to prevent his own death. 

“Oswald, do you feel up to going out again today?”

Oswald gives him a small, knowing smile. “We’ll go to the hospital after breakfast.”

*

“What are you going to tell them?” Edward asks as they approach the reception.

“I’ll figure something out,” Oswald says dismissively, and quietly, not wanting to look like a crazy man who talks to himself. “Hi,” Oswald greets the receptionist nervously. “I’ve come to enquire after Edward Nygma.”

“May I ask what your relation is to the patient?”

“Yes, I’m his boyfriend, Peter Humboldt. I’ve just gotten back from a long trip and I couldn’t get hold of him—his workplace directed me here.”

“I see. One moment please.” She heads over to the other side of the desk to make a call, undoubtedly so she won’t be heard. 

“Boyfriend?” Edward asks from beside him. 

Oswald simply sticks out his bottom lip and shrugs. He won’t admit that it is at least in part to enjoy how awkward the concept makes Edward. Oswald can see his cheeks colour, watches as his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows nervously.

“The doctor on Mr. Nygma’s case will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says, making sure to smile politely but look worried at the same time. He adjusts his glasses—he doesn’t know how people wear them all the time, they’re so irritating. He’s wearing Edward’s spare pair in an attempt to create an entirely different persona, round rimmed and thankfully not in the same style as his. They do make him look quite fetching, if he does say so himself.

“Mr. Humboldt?” 

Oswald turns around and shakes the hand of the doctor, a middle aged man with sharp eyes. 

“My name is Doctor Hartford. I must say I was surprised when I heard your relation to Mr. Nygma. None of the people we spoke to, including his next of kin, mentioned a partner.”

“We hadn’t been together long when I had to go away on business. A month or so—but he has become very dear to me. I think he might be the one.” Oswald summons tears to support his story, and the doctor does look taken aback. He can see Edward staring wide-eyed in the corner of his vision. 

Doctor Hartford gestures for Oswald to follow him, so he does. They get into an elevator and go to the third floor, stopping outside a room at the end of the corridor. 

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this Mr. Humboldt, but the papers ending his life support have been signed by his father. It will happen at noon tomorrow.”

Oswald allows his tears to spill over. They’re not entirely fake; he can’t lose another person so soon. Faced with fresh grief, he covers his mouth and closes his eyes. It takes everything in him not to look at Ed.

“Could I—would it be okay if I said goodbye?” 

The doctor nods sympathetically. “I have ten minutes before I have to be anywhere. I believe he has another visitor in there at the moment but I’m sure she won’t mind stepping out for you.”

Doctor Hartford holds the door open for him and Oswald steps inside. 

It’s like his own heart stops at the sight of Edward lying there on the bed, utterly inanimate. His skin is a sickening pale colour and it looks as though he is barely clinging to life. It’s a struggle for Oswald to reconcile this man with the lively ghost he knows. In that moment, the reality of the situation really hits him. Edward is going to die tomorrow, and there’s not a damn thing Oswald can do about it. 

He finally looks at Ed, who seems paralysed by the sight of his own body, so close to death. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Asks a gentle voice from beside the bed.

“Peter,” Oswald manages to whisper. “His partner.”

The woman’s eyes widen. This, he supposes, is Miss Kringle. “I didn’t know…I’m sorry, I’ll give you some privacy.” She turns back to Edward’s body. “Goodbye, Mr. Nygma.” She squeezes his hand. 

“Goodbye Miss Kringle,” Edward says, voice raw. She doesn’t acknowledge him, because of course she can’t see or hear him. Oswald can’t imagine how that must have made Edward feel. 

Miss Kringle takes a shaky breath, stands up, adjusts her glasses and moves towards Oswald.

She gives him a polite smile as she passes him on her way out of the room. He can see the tears in her eyes. 

Oswald looks at ghost Edward, wiping underneath his eyes as he takes Miss Kringle’s vacated seat.

“Do you think perhaps if I spoke with your father I could convince—”

“No.” Edward interrupts firmly.

“But—”

“ _NO_.” 

Oswald is alarmed by Edward’s shouting, thankful he is the only one that can hear it. There must be bad blood between Edward and his parents, but there is no time to talk about it. 

There is no time left at all. Oswald has to think fast.

“Maybe you could try to merge with your body,” Oswald suggests. 

“This isn’t a movie Oswald.”

“Humour me.”

Edward exaggeratedly rolls his eyes but obliges, clearly still angry, climbing up onto the bed and disappearing into his body. Oswald has seen some strange things in the past few days but he thinks that particular sight takes the cake. 

Edward lifts his arm, and then his leg, both of which emerge from his body, rather than move it. As Edward had said, it wasn’t going to work. 

“Did you feel anything?” Oswald asks curiously. 

“Nothing. I’m not connected to my body at all.”

Edward climbs off the bed and stands on the other side of it, shoulders slumped in defeat. He looks unbearably sad, and he turns his attention to the flowers on the bedside table, likely so Oswald doesn’t see his grief. 

“Doctor Thompkins and Detective Gordon sent flowers. That’s nice.” 

Oswald doesn’t miss the way his voice wavers, or the way his breath hitches. How could he think Oswald would judge him for mourning his own life? Perhaps he is simply uncomfortable being open with his emotions. Oswald supposes he can understand that. Though this _is_ an extremely unique situation. 

He gazes at Edward’s body, hating how helpless he feels. He just needs _one_ victory. One. 

Holding his breath, he reaches out and places his hand over Edward’s. He bends his fingers over the palm, so he is holding it. In the corner of his eye, he sees ghost Ed lift his own hand and stare at it. He turns around and stares at Oswald’s hand around his, expression amazed. 

“When Miss Kringle touched me, I didn’t feel it…how is it that when you touch me, I can?”

“I don’t know,” Oswald says, trying to control his blush. “Perhaps it’s because I can see you, and she can’t?” He rubs his thumb over the back of Edward’s hand, and the man gasps and looks down at him in wonder. Oswald tries a small smile, and he is rewarded with one in return. 

“I’m very sorry Mr. Humboldt, but I have an appointment and I can’t leave you alone in here.”

Oswald jumps at the interruption. 

“Yes of course,” Oswald says. “May I just have one more moment to say goodbye?”

“All right,” Doctor Hartford acquiesces. 

As soon as he has backed out of the room, Oswald stands and faces Ed. 

“Are you coming home?”

Edward looks troubled. Oswald knows the answer before he says it. “I don’t think I can leave him.” He glances at his body. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I don’t want him to be alone.”

Oswald nods. “This is goodbye then.”

“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been a true friend to me. The best one I’ve ever had.”

“You’ve scared the shit out of me and probably taken years off my life,” Oswald says, glad when that gets a smile from Edward, “but likewise.”

“Mr. Humboldt, I’m sorry—” comes an exasperated but still sympathetic voice from the doorway. 

“It’s okay I’m coming.” 

“Goodbye Ed,” Oswald says, forcing his eyes away from the ghost and following Doctor Hartford out of the room. When he gets to the elevator, he looks back down the corridor, and sees Edward standing at the end of it, hands in his pockets, watching him go. It will be his last memory of Ed.

When he gets to his car, Oswald can’t start driving right away. He leans his head on the steering wheel and takes deep breaths. He feels wrung out, and no more tears will come, because he has already cried too much. So there’s nothing left but for him to endure the pain in this heart, all his outlets exhausted. Perhaps he can go back to the apartment and sleep it off. 

But he knows it will take more than one good sleep to start putting this feeling of heartbroken loneliness behind him. There is just too much pain. Everything is too much. 

When he eventually gets back to the apartment, he changes into pyjamas right away and gets into bed, far too wired to sleep. He pulls the covers over his head and wishes for oblivion.

*

Edward wonders if anyone else will come to say goodbye. After Oswald leaves, the room is almost unbearably quiet. A couple of nurses come to check his status, but other than that, it’s just him and his body. He supposes other than Kristen, there isn’t really anyone who’d have reason to visit him. 

He is starting to lose hope when the door opens and Detective Gordon walks in. Edward is surprised to see that Doctor Thompkins isn’t with him. 

He stands there at the foot of the bed, appraising just how bad the situation is. He looks troubled, almost like he might walk straight back out again, but ultimately he decides to take the seat by the bed—Edward jumping out of the way at the last moment. He retreats to the other side of the bed and perches next to his own shoulder. 

Detective Gordon pulls the chair closer to the bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees. 

“God I feel stupid doin’ this.” He runs his hand over his mouth. “You probably can’t hear a damn word I’m saying…

“I guess I just wanted you to know I think it’s really brave what you did. You’re a good man, Ed. I know people weren’t always kind to you, didn’t always understand you…and you never deserved that. I should have done more, should have stood up for you…I let you down Ed, and I’m sorry for that.”

For a long moment, he stares at Edward’s perfectly still face, as if he’ll choose that perfect moment to wake up and everything will be okay. 

“I can’t change what happened,” Edward mentally rolls his eyes at this. His _speeches_. “But I can promise you I’ll try to be a better man. I vow that nothing like this will ever happen again, not on my watch. Ten brothers is too many.”

He slumps back in his seat, clearly exhausted from the events following the massacre. Then he leans forward again and runs his hands through his hair, clearly trying to get himself together. Detective Gordon stands up abruptly then, and looks at Edward's body one last time. “Goodbye, Ed,” he says quietly, before walking out. 

Edward sits there shell-shocked, and profoundly glad it’s likely that no one else will visit. He doesn’t think he could sit through any more of people struggling with their emotions and how to express them. He does enough of that on his own.

He lifts his knee up onto the bed, angling himself towards his body. He looks so small and fragile, and wonders if that was how people perceived him—as someone easily breakable who’d go down without a fight. 

If only they knew.

It doesn’t surprise him that his father has signed the paperwork to turn off his life support. He probably couldn’t sign it fast enough. What _does_ surprise him is the fact that he bothered to come to the hospital at all. Perhaps he simply wanted the satisfaction of being there to win their feud. Edward can’t fight back this time. Familiarly exhausting rage and humiliation simmer under his skin.

Daylight drains away too fast—Edward has never witnessed time passing with such speed before, almost as though he missed an entire portion of the afternoon. His last night is already beginning. And here he is sitting alone with his soon-to-be dead body, feeling powerless and desolate.

He looks down at the hand Oswald had held, smooths his own thumb over it.

Is this really how he wants to spend his last night alive?

*

Oswald blinks awake from his doze, surprised that he did fall asleep after all. It’s dark now, and he wonders how late it is, how Edward is feeling. Though he supposes that sleep gave Edward something of a reprieve from watching over his body. 

After dragging himself to the bathroom, he heads over to the kitchen to see if he can find any alcohol. The only way he feels he can get through this night is to drink it away, and to try to avoid thinking about Edward sitting in that hospital watching his final hours tick by, second by second, minute by minute.

He eventually locates a bottle of red, and for lack of wine glasses ends up pouring it rather blasphemously into a beaker. 

Which he almost drops when Edward walks through the wall next to the door main door. He smiles when his eyes land on Oswald. 

“Hi.”

“Ed! What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want to spend my last night in a hospital,” he says as he wanders over to the couch.

“So what do you want to do? I mean, I could drive you somewhere...” Oswald sits at the other end and sips at his wine. “I wish I could say I can take you anywhere but unfortunately being a wanted man makes the options somewhat limited…”

“Could I just spend the night with a friend?”

“Of course,” Oswald says. “Though, considering that we’re friends, we don’t really know each other that well.”

“So let’s fix that!” Edward says cheerily. “You know I had always wanted to meet you, and when I got to talk to you that day at the GCPD, it felt like it was too good to be true.”

Oswald blushes and looks down, shaking his head. Edward goes on to tell him everything he knows about Oswald, the memories coming to him freely now it seems. Oswald doesn’t point it out, lest he has difficulty remembering things from his life again. He fills in the gaps in Edward’s knowledge, adds a few corrections here and there. All in all, it’s an impressive summary of his criminal history and associations. 

They eventually retire to the bed, lying on their sides facing each other. Oswald tells Edward everything that has happened since the attack, and the entire ugly situation with Galavan. He has to stop when he gets to the part with his mother. Edward nods understandingly.

“Can I tell you something I haven’t told anyone?” 

“Of course,” Oswald says easily, glad to have a change of topic from his mother.

“I murdered someone.” Edward bites his lip in the manner of a boy who feels guilty for not having done his homework, rather than the overwhelming regret of someone with blood on their hands.

Oswald is intrigued. 

“Who? Why?”

“Tom Dougherty. He was a police officer at the GCPD. He was the last man Miss Kringle dated. He was hurting her. So I stabbed him to death.”

Oswald is sure his eyebrows must be in his hairline. He had not thought Edward capable of this.

“And how do you feel about that now?”

“Glad. He deserved it,” Edward says with fierce certainty. 

“Would you have ever told Kringle?”

“Perhaps, if she ever felt worried about him hurting her again. I’ve no doubt she would be grateful.”

Oswald snorts. Edward may have revealed himself capable of committing murder and covering it up, but when it comes to people, he remains utterly clueless.

“I don’t think she would have welcomed that information, Ed.”

Edward frowns in confusion.

“You see ordinary people tend to frown upon murder, whether it was someone they liked or not. I don’t think she would have reacted quite as favourably as you imagine.”

Edward’s expression takes on an irritated edge, as though he hates it when people don’t conform to the labelled boxes he puts them in. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

Oswald covers his mouth as he yawns, it must be the early hours of morning by now. He blinks hard; he won’t fall asleep. Edward already has so little time left. 

“I don’t mind if you fall asleep,” Edward says. “It might be better if I’m not around to witness my own death.”

“No, I’m not going to fall asleep, Ed. I’ll stay with you til the end.”

Edward manages a small smile. “Thank you.”

Oswald rolls onto his back, as his leg was starting to hurt. “You know, I had a strange dream this afternoon, when I dozed off.”

“Oh?”

“I dreamed that instead of coming here, I fled into the woods—which was actually my plan before the ad landed on my windshield. And instead of finding me here, you found me there.”

“How odd,” Edward says darkly.

“You asked me before if I thought fate brought me here,” Oswald says, and he feels the truth in the next words as he says them. “I think it did. Too much has happened in the last few days to be coincidental. I think we were supposed to meet—but I still couldn’t say why. I suppose the reason will reveal itself in time.”

“Time is not a luxury I have.” 

Oswald sees Edward also turn over to lay on his back. They stare at the glare from the neon sign outside the window, smudged across the ceiling. 

“I come to bedsides, icy ridges. Battlefronts and crumbling bridges. When I come, I come alone. I tap a shoulder, and then I’m gone. Who am I?”

It’s an easy riddle, and one that Oswald doesn’t want to answer. “The world is cruel beyond my wildest imaginings. Why would fate bring us together so close to the end of your life?”

“Death,” Edward says, answering his own riddle.

Oswald realises there’s no point in asking questions neither of them can answer, and it’s a waste of time—which is probably why Edward ignored him. That and it is probably distressing to keep talking about how close the end is. And Oswald had thought _Edward_ was the one who is clueless with people.

His eyes are stinging, and it really, truly is an effort to stay awake now. 

“I can feel my heart beating,” Edward says, so quietly it’s barely above a whisper. 

Oswald turns on his side and realises Edward is allowing him to see how afraid he is. He looks at Oswald, his eyes glassy. “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” is all Oswald says. He wasn’t ready for his mother to be taken from him, and he’s not ready to lose Ed. Oswald shuffles closer to him, wanting to offer what meagre comfort he can. Edward rolls onto his side again, bringing their foreheads so close they’re almost touching. Or would be, if they could. 

“No one has touched me in years. I never really wanted anyone to, before I met Miss Kringle. It always made me uncomfortable when I was younger. And now I just want... and I…” Edward puts two fingers against each of his eyes in an effort to control himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, brokenly. “What must you think of me?”

“None of that,” Oswald admonishes. “I understand, and I don’t think any less of you for it.” He shifts a little closer. “Jim Gordon was ordered to shoot me, when he first joined the force, did you know that?”

Edward brings his hands away from his face to look at Oswald with interest. He shakes his head.

“He took me down to the docks in the trunk of his car. I was shaking, I was so terrified. He held a gun to my back at the edge of the pier, and I really thought he was going to kill me.”

“So, what happened?”

“I begged and pleaded for him to spare me. Told him I would be his slave. All manner of lies really. Anything to get him to reconsider.”

“You begged?” Edward seems to be rethinking what he knows about Oswald.

“I did. The point is, I always thought I would stare death in the face and smile. But the truth of it is, you never know how you’re going to react. It strips you bare, reveals your true nature.” Oswald lays his hand on the bed between them. “But I’ve come to realise that true strength is being able to show that vulnerability.”

Edward laughs wetly then. “That sounded just like a Jim Gordon speech.” 

Oswald rolls his eyes. “That man and his insufferable morals.”

“Tell me about it.” 

They lay there calmly basking in the warm glow of companionship. Edward’s smile fades from his lips slightly as he lifts a hand, hovering above Oswald’s. 

“May I?”

Oswald nods and watches, eager to see what, if anything, will happen. Edward lowers his hand, so the bottom of it merges with the top of Oswald’s.

He feels it instantly. It feels like when static electricity makes your hair stand on end, or the very last seconds before a lightning strike. It’s as though Edward is composed entirely of electric currents. He describes how it feels to Edward, who listens, intrigued. 

“Can you feel anything?” Oswald asks, curiously.

“No. The entire time I’ve been like this, the only thing I’ve felt was when you touched my hand at the hospital.”

Oswald feels his cheeks heat, unsure of how to respond to that. He doesn’t rightly understand why it happened, or what it means. Edward takes his hand away, and Oswald brings his own back to his chest. He sighs.

“I think we’d make a great team.”

“Oh? How so?”

“We could set this city to rights.” He lays on his back again, as it’s more comfortable for his leg. “Gotham needs a strong leader to step up and take the reins.” He yawns, he can’t help himself. He feels as though he’s fighting a losing battle against exhaustion. 

“It will be you.” Edward says with certainty. “You’re the only one who can tread the line between the crime families and the politicians.”

Oswald snorts. “Like there’s a difference.”

“Gotham needs someone who understands both its faces. Nobody understands this city better than you.”

“You should be my strategist,” Oswald says with mirth, dangerously allowing his eyes to close. 

“I would be, you know,” Edward says, his voice sounding strange. “I would do anything for you.”

Moments later, Oswald falls asleep; Edward watching him sadly as he fades away.

*

Oswald wakes up in a panic, mortified to have fallen asleep. He looks around for Edward, but he is nowhere to be seen. A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells him it’s 9.30 and he sighs in relief. He still has time.

He knows what he has to do.

Oswald fumbles for his cell phone on the nightstand and calls the GCPD. Everything that's about to happen will take place so quickly that it will be over by the time anyone picks up anything suspicious and traces his call. At this point it simply doesn't matter whether he gets caught or not. He asks to be put through to the archive department.

“GCPD archives department, how can I help you?”

“Is that Kristen Kringle?”

“Yes it is. May I ask who is calling?”

“It’s Peter Humboldt. We met yesterday.”

Her tone suddenly turns gentle and sympathetic. “Oh yes! What can I do for you, Mr Humboldt?” 

He’s taking an enormous risk here, but he can’t manage this endeavour on his own, and she is the only person he thinks might care enough to help. He takes a deep breath—the time for dithering has long since passed.

“I don’t suppose you have a van large enough to fit a body in it, do you?”


	3. Chapter 3

_I have seen what the darkness does_  
_(Say goodbye to who I was)_  
_I ain't never been away so long_  
_(Don't look back, them days are gone)_  
**_Follow me into the endless night_**

 

One hour after the phone call, a police van screeches to a halt, bumping up onto the sidewalk with the practiced skill of someone who is completely unused to driving vehicles bigger than cars. Oswald, waiting outside Edward’s apartment building, is forced to jump out of the way, but quickly recovers himself and slides open the door, climbing in to sit beside Kristen. She is smiling across at him, clearly exhilarated by their mission. Between them on the seat are two white lab coats, that could pass them for doctors when they get to the hospital. 

“I must say, I’m impressed. How did you manage it?”

“Let’s just say, men are idiots,” is all she replies. Oswald pouts his lips, raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement.

“Do you want me to drive?” He’s more than a little concerned they may not actually arrive at the hospital in one piece. It would be unfortunate if things went awry before they even got to Edward.

“That’s very kind of you, Peter, but I got this.” And with that she puts her foot down and they bump off the curb—Oswald is thrown forward and after that decides to put on his seatbelt. Kristen smiles at him sheepishly and apologizes. Oswald brushes it off, but holds on for dear life.

When they’re about halfway to the hospital, and she seems to have calmed down somewhat, Oswald says tentatively, “thank you for helping me.”

He wants to hate this woman who has inspired such devotion in Edward, only for it to be spurned and mocked, but the truth is, he can understand why. The woman just stole a police vehicle, and used her feminine wiles to do it, for crying out loud. Oswald thinks that in another time, she could have been one of the city’s great villains. There’s a lot of untapped potential there.

“Edward saved my life. The least I can do is try to save his. He deserves more time.”

Oswald knows in that moment that she wouldn’t have done anything so bold without the motivation of what he had done for her. Oswald had been right before: she doesn’t love him.

Once the van is parked (thankfully without hitting anything and drawing attention to themselves), they don their lab coats and head into the hospital. They try to blend in as much as possible as they make their way to the third floor, relieved to find no one in the corridor, or in Edward’s room.

Except Edward. 

“Oswald!” He exclaims, jumping out of his bedside chair. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life,” Oswald responds immediately. Edward stands there breathless for a moment, his eyes filled with amazement and gratitude. It makes Oswald feel a number of things, but they don’t have time for sentiment. 

“What do we need to move him?” He angles his face towards Kristen but eyes Edward for his answer.

“There’s a supply room down the hall. I got bored and went wandering a few times.” Oswald can see the cogs turning as he goes into practical mode. “The chances of you pulling this off with no medical knowledge—”

“Just tell us where the room is and what we need and we’ll go from there!” Oswald hisses. 

Kristen eyes him strangely. As far as she is concerned, he has just been conversing either with the comatose body in front of them, or with himself. 

“Sorry, just talking to myself!” He smiles and shrugs.

“Oh,” Kristen says, nodding. “You two have a lot in common.”

Edward looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised, looking like a deer in headlights. Then he shakes his head. “Follow me.”

They commandeer a gurney, and Oswald places the items they need on it as Edward lists them. Kristen says nothing, apparently trusting Oswald’s judgement and knowledge. They hurry back, as there’s less than an hour until noon. They prepare everything and pull the gurney up alongside Edward’s bed, before jointly hefting him onto it. Together they push the gurney—every little movement of Edward’s body as they move down the corridor makes him incredibly nervous.

“Why do I feel like this isn’t the first time you’ve stolen a body?” Kristen asks quietly, glancing furtively around them as they wait for the elevator. 

Edward, who’s standing on Kristen’s other side, smirks at Oswald. 

“This is Gotham,” is all Oswald says. 

To their horror, when the doors ding open, Doctor Hartford and another man who is obviously Edward’s father are standing there, staring at them in bafflement. Doctor Hartford is the first to look down at the stretcher and put two and two together.

“Oh _shit_ ,” says Kristen.

“Fuck,” says Oswald.

“Run!” says Edward. 

Oswald jolts into action as Doctor Hartford scrambles in his pocket for his phone, and Edward’s father starts realizing what’s happening. Oswald leans around into the elevator and presses several buttons for higher floors, darting out again before the doors can close. 

Then he and Kristen run awkwardly to the next set of elevators, hearing someone yell “security!” behind them.

“They’re early!” Oswald says, panicked and indignant, thumbing the call button repeatedly. Kristen’s only response is to take slow measured breaths, blowing the air out through a little ‘o’.

“Bastard just couldn’t wait,” Edward says angrily beside him.

The elevator arrives then, blessedly empty. As they descend, Oswald realizes that his heart is pounding furiously. He looks at Ed, whose eyes are already on him, a sad smile on his face. Oswald can almost read his thoughts: the chances of them getting to the van with his body now are almost non-existent—too many people have been alerted to their presence. Oswald knows it, Edward knows it. A glance at Kristen’s worried face says she knows it too.

Oswald wonders if he knew that before they even moved his body. 

Oswald tries to convey with his expression just how sorry he is, and Edward’s answering one says he understands. 

“I would rather go like this,” he says, voice thick. “Knowing someone cared enough to try.”

The doors ding open and he shoots another quick look at Kristen. She nods, he nods back. They run out of the elevator, down the corridor to the main entrance, where there is already a welcoming party. They try to dodge them but it’s impossible to coordinate their efforts, and they’re jostling Edward far too much already. They find themselves surrounded by security and staff, and it will probably only be a matter of minutes before the GCPD arrives. 

“Oswald,” comes Edward’s resigned voice, “my breathing tube is gone.”

Stricken, Oswald looks down at Edward’s body and sees the apparatus is indeed missing from his face. Now he just looks like he’s sleeping. He turns his gaze back to Edward, to see he’s already starting to fade. Oswald observes with mounting panic as his heart activity lessens on the cardiac monitor, until there’s barely anything at all. He looks back up just in time to see Edward fading out of existence completely, still trying to smile at Oswald.

He knows that image will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

Oswald looks back down at the body, and it’s like the whole area has been frozen in time, no one is moving. Not even Doctor Hartford or Edward’s father move to approach. The plan had been to end his life anyway; Oswald just did it half an hour earlier. 

Instead of saving Edward, he just killed him sooner. 

He closes his eyes and tears spill over. The next thing he knows, security is on him, two men trying to drag him away, but Oswald struggles with all his might.

“Stop!” Kristen yells.

The security guards pause in their movement, and Oswald stops struggling and looks over to see Kristen staring down at the body in disbelief. 

Except it’s not a body anymore. It’s Edward, and his eyes are open. Oswald wrenches his arms free from the guards and approaches the gurney once more. His breath held, eyes glassy, Oswald looks down at Edward.

“Miss Kringle?” Edward rasps, squinting up at her. How different he looks without his glasses.

“Yes it’s me!” she cries delightedly. “And look who’s with me!”

Edward slowly turns his head to follow her gaze. Oswald feels a jolt like an electric shock. Edward is real and alive and _looking at him_. Oswald smiles at him encouragingly, even as tears slip down his cheeks. His fingers flex nervously on the bed frame.

“I’m sorry—I don’t—”

There is absolutely no recognition in his eyes. 

He doesn’t remember any of it.

“It’s your boyfriend Peter! You don’t remember Peter?”

Edward begins to look distressed, looking to Kristen for help. He can’t tell Edward who he really is in front of Kristen and all these witnesses. And anyway, it would only bring up the one memory he has of the two of them together, their first meeting at the GCPD. Nothing matters if he doesn’t remember everything that passed between them over the past few days. He could explain it, but Edward probably wouldn’t believe it. Oswald isn’t sure he believes it himself half the time.

Oswald must carry the weight of the memories alone. 

He can’t stay here; he needs to get on with his plan to leave Gotham. And he needs to leave before the police arrive and realize who he is. Oswald needs to clear out any trace of his presence from Edward’s apartment and get going as soon as possible. 

Oswald steps back and smiles at Kristen before turning away. Security lets him go, they can’t retain him for waking up a coma patient—he’s done no evil here. For once.

As he exits the hospital he hears the sirens wailing in the distance. There bitingly cold winter air brings him back to himself a little, helps him to stop the tears from falling. 

He heads around to the back of the hospital, throwing the lab coat into the dumpster and crossing the street, promptly getting lost in the city’s crowds. It’s a very long walk back to Edward’s apartment, but he figures the time it will take him will give the police time to check it out, if they go that far, before he gets back. At least Kristen and the hospital only know his name as Peter, and as Edward’s boyfriend he’s hopefully not suspicious enough for them to look at the hospital security cameras. He hopes the subject of his limp doesn’t come up—it’s always his biggest unescapable tell and he hates it.

It seems strange that something so impossible would happen to him, to _them_ , only for it to ultimately cease to mean anything. He is now, as far as the world is concerned, in exactly the same position he was after he fled with a bullet wound in his shoulder. He is the only person who knows that something incredibly important happened in Ed’s apartment, is the only one who knows how changed he has been by it all. By having a friend. 

But life seems intent on taking away everything he cares about. 

*

Oswald has just finished packing his meagre belongings, when there’s a knock on the door of Ed’s apartment. He’s finally ready to leave Gotham—he’s got a full tank of gas and nothing to keep him here, except what’s probably on the other side of the door. He deliberates about whether to answer it. He only told one person where he was, and that person almost certainly has news he won’t like. Oswald could just ignore it and pretend that he has already left. 

But he will always wonder. 

He opens the door. It’s Gabe, with the news that Galavan has been let go following the damn trial that Gordon was so insistent on. 

Oswald could just about cope with the knowledge that he was rotting away in Blackgate, but the idea of Galavan roaming the city as a powerful free man is too much to bear. He feels his hands ball into shaking fists. 

“Where _is_ he?”

*

When Edward eventually returns to work, there’s no fanfare.

No one claps or cheers. There’s no welcome back party, no gifts or words of praise, and no one treats him any differently. He’s not the hero who saved Kristen’s life, he’s still weird little Ed, with his word play and his riddles, who nobody engages with unless they want something. 

There is one crucial difference in his life, post-coma. 

KK.

She has been supportive through the whole process of his recovery, and now treats him the way he had always wanted her to. She stops by the forensics lab at least twice a day, just to see if he is doing all right. Sometimes she brings him coffee. She even makes an effort to answer his riddles—so far she has only succeeded once, but at least she is trying. 

It feels as though they are building towards something, the something that made him dive in front of that bullet in the first place. 

The way she looks at him sometimes makes him think she’s waiting for him to ask. 

But Edward can’t bring himself to. Because there’s a huge gap in his knowledge, and it eats away at him every day.

Who _is_ Peter Humboldt?

He has questioned Kristen endlessly about the mystery man, but all she can tell him is a rough description of what he looked like, and that he had claimed to be Edward’s boyfriend.

That had been an awkward conversation. It had taken place while he was still recovering in hospital. She had prompted him gently, “I didn’t know you…liked men too.”

It’s wasn’t the first time someone had suggested it. It _was_ the first time he didn’t deny it. He allowed it to just sit there between them, and she had simply smiled at him understandingly. It marked the first time someone had just accepted it as a fact, and not just another thing to use against him. 

But he couldn’t own having a relationship with Peter, especially since he knows so little about him. He didn’t go along with the charade, and told her honestly he didn’t know who Peter was, or why he had wanted to help Edward. It seems an odd notion that his coming out was provoked by a phantom.

There’s only one person he’s ever met that matches the very few scraps of information he has managed to gather—Oswald Cobblepot. He’s the only one with a pronounced limp, light eyes and black hair that he knows. But he had immediately dismissed the idea as ridiculous. The one time they had met, Oswald had brushed him off as though he was no better than the dirt on his shoe, his dislike very evident. There is no way Oswald would have anything to do with him at all, let alone claim to be his boyfriend, alias or no. 

He _hates_ when something is missing. The absence of knowledge he _should_ have is extremely aggravating—but then again how many people remember what happened around them while they were in a coma? He has that niggling feeling that there’s something _just_ below the surface, and it keeps evading him, like shapes in the corner of your eye that you don’t see when you turn to look at them directly. Sometimes he thinks he might go mad if he never solves the mystery.

It’s nearing the end of his work day and he is making his way from the captain’s office back to the forensics lab, when Kristen approaches him by the railing overlooking the main floor of the precinct.

“How are you doing today?” she asks, clutching a number of files to her chest, smiling in her utterly disarming way. 

He tilts his head and gives her a thin-lipped smile. “Right as rain.”

“I was wondering, if you don’t have any plans tonight, if—”

Captain Barnes bursts out of his office then, talking urgently on his phone, loud enough that it startles them both.

“…He says he’s got a lead on the Penguin—says he was spotted heading into the woods.”

Into the woods.

_Instead of coming here, I fled into the woods…_

The memories hit him like a cartoon piano being dumped on his head, and he has to grip the railing, lest he collapse. The images are coming so fast that he feels dizzy, and they flicker through his mind like an old film reel; Oswald stumbling into the apartment, blood soaking through his clothes; Oswald yelling at him to shoot him so he wouldn’t have to listen to him anymore; Oswald crying over his late mother; being told Kristen doesn’t return his affections; his delight when he came back to the apartment to tell Edward he wasn’t dead; their laying close together on the bed on his last night.... _Oswald._

But one memory rises above all the others. He cradles his left hand in his right, running a thumb over the knuckles. His heart constricts—he _remembers_. And more than that, he remembers how it _felt_. 

Edward looks at Kristen, who’s crouching beside him, and realizes at some point in the last few minutes she must have sat him down at a nearby desk. 

“Nygma, you okay?” asks Captain Barnes from behind him. 

“Yes, I think so,” he replies, trying to sound cheerful. “Just a funny turn.”

“Perhaps you should go home and get some rest. You’ve been doing a great job here, but you _are_ still recovering from a serious injury.”

“Yes, I think I’ll do that, thank you Captain.”

Captain Barnes nods and pats his shoulder heavily, before heading down the stairs. As soon as he’s out of sight, he jumps up. 

“I’m sorry Kristen. I have to go.” He looks up at her imploringly. “I know who Peter is.”

And he leaves her there, mouth open and frowning slightly, running full pelt back to the lab to grab his coat and bag. He locks the lab behind him and hurries to his car, wasting no time as he screeches out of the parking lot. All he knows is that he has to get to Oswald before Barnes does. 

His brain is still a jumble of confusion, having not had time to properly process all the new information. Even if he did, he’s not sure how he would be able to reconcile what happened with the fact he was in a coma. None of it should have been possible. Yet he knows it’s all true like he knows his own name. 

He floors his old car, for the first time wishing he had something newer and faster. There are a number of wooded areas Oswald could have gone to, but the situation is desperate, and he imagines Oswald has gone to the nearest one. 

Unfortunately, it has started to snow quite heavily, which forces him to slow down a bit. There was already a layer of snow on the ground which is probably thicker in the woods; he had thought to follow Oswald’s footprints, but if it’s already snowing again they may be gone by the time he gets there. When he pulls into the carpark, he sees one other car already there, which with its haphazard parking, bears all the signs of being hastily abandoned. Edward grabs a torch from the trunk and goes over to the other car, looking to follow a trail from it. He locates one almost immediately, flipping the switch on the torch and following it with as much haste as he can, given that the snow is almost knee-deep.

*

It’s hard to run in the snow, and Oswald has been on the run for the almost twenty-four hours since he and Jim killed Galavan by the river. 

He’s exhausted. He can’t run for much longer, and knows that his imminent capture is inevitable. Nevertheless, he forces himself to keep moving—perhaps he will find a suitable place to hide. Though how long he’ll survive in these freezing temperatures, with night rapidly approaching, hungry and worn down, is anyone’s guess. 

He’s so lost in these thoughts that he trips over a tree root hidden in the snow drift, falling forwards and getting a face full of snow. He lies there a moment, allowing himself a small reprieve, before making himself get back up, spitting out snow. He pulls his wooly hat back down over his ears, although everything just feels damp and cold now. There’s no warmth in anything. 

Why didn’t he just ignore Gabe and leave Gotham while he still had the chance?

No, he can’t find it in himself to regret tracking down Galavan, even though he wasn’t the one to kill him in the end—he has avenged his mother, and hopefully she can now rest in peace. 

But to die out here in the woods of exposure like a weak and frightened animal… It’s not one of the endings he wanted for himself.

His throat is burning, all his muscles are screaming in pain, and he knows he will have to give up. He physically cannot go on. 

Oswald looks around himself for a large tree to lean against. He clears a path to one, and digs out some snow so he can sit against it. The moment he does, he sighs in immense relief. He leans back and closes his eyes, and it’s all he can do not to fall asleep.

Oswald must have actually been drifting off, because the next thing he knows, there’s a bright light flickering across his face, making the backs of his eyelids white out. 

This is it, they’ve found him. He’s going to go to Arkham for the murder of Theo Galavan. 

But no one is saying anything, there’s no one reading him his rights. There’s just silence. Just a very, very subtle crunch of snow underfoot. He blinks against the light, trying to see who is behind it.

The torch is lowered, and it takes his eyes several moments to adjust. The first thing he sees is the red of a coat, before looking up and recognizing no one other than _Edward Nygma_ standing there, just a few feet away, amidst the falling snow. He’s smiling at Oswald as though he couldn’t be happier to see him. As though he _knows_ him.

“Hi Peter.” 

_Peter_.

Edward _remembers_.

Oswald’s breath catches in his throat. Edward starts walking towards him, and with considerable effort, Oswald pulls himself to his feet. Edward doesn’t stop when he reaches Oswald, throwing himself at him and wrapping his arms around him, almost knocking Oswald back into the tree. He laughs in pure joy, the ability to _touch_ Edward, to feel his embrace, making him happier than he has ever felt. Tears escape him, but for the first time in a long while, they’re not tears of sadness. 

Edward’s hands don’t stop moving over his back; it seems he is marveling at being able to touch Oswald too. 

“We can’t stay here,” Edward says breathlessly, stepping backwards so he can see Oswald’s face, but not out of his embrace entirely. “Captain Barnes is on his way. I got a head start on them but they won’t be far behind.” He takes another step back and holds out his hand. “They’ll probably be following our trail—I didn’t have time to cover it up. We can just take a wider loop back round to the car and hopefully get back while they’re still in here.”

“All right,” Oswald says. He’s distracted by the warmth of Ed’s gloved hand. He gasps, his breaths spiraling in the air, as Edward smooths his thumb over the back of Oswald’s hand. _I know you._

Edward leads him in a different direction from the one he’d come. Oswald is so disoriented he probably wouldn’t have had much hope of finding his way out of the woods. He’s so beyond tired that he just concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, as he follows Edward through the gloom. The worst part is having to pick his feet up to step through the snow. He stumbles a few times, and Edward stops to make sure Oswald is still lucid, but he never lets go of his hand, and it’s that which gives Oswald the strength to make it to the car. 

When they eventually make it to the edge of the woods, they’re both relieved to see no police officers, just two empty cars, both blocking Oswald’s abandoned vehicle. They hurriedly get into Edward’s car, and he shrugs out of his coat and gives it to Oswald. He cranks up the heating as far as it will go. He dimly realizes his teeth are chattering and that he probably is in the early stages of hypothermia. Edward looks across at him as they drive back to Gotham with no small amount of concern. 

By the time he pulls up outside the apartment, Oswald has stopped shivering, which he knows is a grave cause for concern. He just doesn’t have the energy to try to warm himself anymore. 

Edward helps Oswald up to the apartment, sitting him down on the bed and methodically stripping his clothes, replacing them with some of his pajamas. Oswald is too exhausted and borderline delirious to be embarrassed about his brief nudity. He shuffles back and gets under the covers, ready to give himself over to exhaustion. As he teeters on the edge of sleep, he feels warmth wrap around his front and sighs. Oswald wraps his arms around it to pull the source of the heat closer, nuzzling as near to it as he can. Finally, he sleeps.

*

When Edward returns from work the following evening, he’s not entirely surprised to find Oswald still sleeping. 

He’d told Kristen that his idea about Peter had led to nothing, and that it was simply a false alarm. She’d left him alone for the rest of the day, and hadn’t tried to ask him out on a date again. Perhaps she’d gouged, rather accurately, that Edward is too obsessed with Peter to contemplate the idea of the two of them together. Kristen is no longer what he wants, hadn’t been, ever since he woke up. He knew it was a symptom of his missing knowledge, the fact he didn’t feel the same way about her—something had happened to change him, and it had frustrated him that he couldn’t explain it.

Now he knows. The reason is lying curled up in the fetal position in his bed. 

He heads towards the kitchen, to begin preparing dinner for them. If Oswald doesn’t wake up naturally soon, Edward have to disturb him—Oswald needs to eat. He potters around for half an hour or so, chopping fruits and vegetables and preparing tea, before going to check on Oswald. 

He’s surprised to find Oswald sitting up, his legs swung over the edge of the bed, watching him with than unerring gaze of his. Edward goes over and kneels on the floor in front of him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Oswald rasps. He clears his throat. “Seems to be the usual state of affairs when I’m with you.” There’s no malice behind his words; he’s even smiling slightly. Edward places a hand on each of Oswald’s knees and grins up at him, taking in the fact that they’re both here and alive and able to touch. Oswald smiles at him fondly.

“What are we going to do now, Ed?”

Edward bounces a little and moves his hands through the air theatrically. “ _Now_ I’m going to make you a delicious dinner so you can see how skilled I am when I can actually touch things.”

Oswald’s cheeks colour, and he seems embarrassed for some reason. Edward frowns. “Are you all right?”

Oswald clears his throat again. “I just meant, what are _we_ going to do now. You know. Bigger picture.”

 _We._ The idea of them working together excites Edward and he can’t help himself as he takes one of Oswald’s hands and reverently kisses the back of it. He keeps it close to his face when he speaks. 

“Now, we make Gotham ours.”


End file.
